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DEVOTED  TO  THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  SOUTH 
IN  THE  CIVIL  WAR 


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THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 

OF  CIML  WAR  NOVELS 

PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


EVELYN; 

A  ROMANCE  OF 

**THE  WAR  BETWEEN  THE  states; 

(in  verse,) 
WITH  AN  APPENDIX  OF 

MINOR     POEMS, 

BY 

HENRY  M.  CLARKSON,  A.  M.,  M.  D. 


CIIARLESTOX,  S.  C. : 

WALKER,  EVANS  &  COGSWELL,  PRINTERS, 

No9.  3  Broad  and  loo  East  Bay  Streets. 

1871. 


EVELYN 


I. 


or  wild,  of  warlike  times  I  tell — long  years 
Of  wavering  hopes,  and  soul-impassioned  prayers — 
Dark  days  of  deadly  strife,  and  direful  hate — 
Deep  deeds  decisive  of  a  Nation's  fate. 
Too  late  his  tears  have  dimmed  the  Southron's  eye. 
His  heart  hath  heaved  too  oft  the  heavy  sigh, 
Alas!  to  let  these  mournful  memories  die  ! 

But,  sadder  yet  the  subject  of  my  song — 
A  strange,  wild  Tale  of  Grief — of  private  wrong — 
Of  spirits  brave,  defiant  of  the  Foe, 
Yet  crushed  at  last,  beneath  their  weight  of  woe  : 
A  Tale  of  Love,  its  tremblings  and  its  fears, 
Its  thousand  tender  thoughts,  and  wayward  tears. 
Its  fond,  delicious  doubts,  its  hopes,  its  sighs. 
And  all  its  pleasing,  fitful  fantasies. 

But  turn  we,  now,  to  earlier  days,  ere  blood 
Had  whelmed  us  with  its  red  remorseless  flood. 

531 £57 


4  Evelyn. 

Not  yet  the  cruel  cannon's  deafening  roar 
Had  drenched  Virginia's  soil  with  crimson  gore : 
Nor  foe  had  crossed  Potomac's  peaceful  waves, 
To  make  our  land,  a  land  of  tear-wet  graves ; 
No  vandal-tread  drew  nigh,  but  far  and  wide. 
His  fertile  fields  the  farmer's  wealth  supplied  : 
Rich  meads  of  waving  grain  grew  fresh  and  green. 
And  Peace  and  Plenty  everywhere  were  seen. 

Where  blooms  the  cypress  and  the  sighing  pine, 
Where  climbs  the  closely-clinging  columbine. 
And  tall  magnolias  cast  their  cooling  shades, 
Mid  myrtle-groves,  and  greenest  Everglades  ; 
Where  flowers  know  not  the  snowy  shrouds  of  Death 
Or  icy  Winter  with  his  withering  breath  ; 
Where  perfumes  kiss  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
And  Nature  smiles,  and  Beauty  owns  its  birth — 
There,  on  a  mild  and  summer-scented  morn, 
By  Eutaw's  banks,  was  Albert  Ashleigh  born  : 
'Mid  Carolina's  hills  his  infant  eyes 
First  caught  the  blue  and  splendor  of  the  skies. 

In  Wealth's  luxurious  lap  he  lay  and  smiled, 
His  yearning  parents'  first  and  only  child : 
Their  link  of  love,  their  idol,  and  their  pride, 
Nor  means,  nor  pains,  nor  plans  were  aught  untried, 


§ 


Evelyn, 

To  make  him  wortli)'  of  the  name  he  bore — 
As  proud  a  name  as  Peer  or  Prince  e'er  wore. 
Of  gentle  blood  begot,  this  boy,  forsooth, 
Grew  up  a  goodly  and  a  gallant  youth. 
Just  at  that  tender  April-time  of  life, 
When  Boyhood's  heart,  with  budding  feelings  rife, 
Untouched  by  care  of  Winter's  later  gloom, 
Is  gliding  into  youth's  soft  summer  bloom  ; 
When  strange,  new  sentiments  inflame  the  breast, 
And  all  the  senses  feel  a  sweet  unrest — 
'Twas  at  such  yearning  age  young  Albert  met 
A  kindred  Spirit,  he  could  ne'er  forget — 
A  Spirit  beaming  out  from  eyes  so  bright, 
The  very  stars  grew  pale  within  their  light. 
'Twas  but  a  girlish  form,  but,  oh !  so  rare 
It  seemed  that  Beauty's  softest  seal  was  there ! 
You  need  but  note  that  face  so  passing  fair. 
That  warm  blue,  melting  eye,  and  midnight  hair; 
You  need  out  note  that  rich,  soft  voice,  I  ween, 
That  modest  grace,  yet  proud,  majestic  mein, 
The  waving  music  of  those  accents  mild, 
To  know  Virginia  claimed  that  beauteous  child. 

Where  limpid  Massaponax  lightly  laves 
The  slopes  of  Spottsylvania  with  its  waves, 


6  Evelyn. 

Its  trembling  waters  gliding  deep  and  wide 

To  wed  with  Rappahannock's  troubled  tide, 

Upon  its  banks,  embosomed  in  the  wood, 

Young  Evelyn's  cottage-home,  Glen  Arvon,  stood. 

Neath  nodding  elms,  and  maples'  silver  sheen, 

Its  ivied  porch  and  graceful  gables  seen ; 

Its  gravelled  walks,  'twixt  turfs  of  blooming  rose, 

Its  placid  look,  its  lake-like  light  repose, 

Its  open,  friendly  door,  its  larder  stored, 

Its  hospitable  hearth  and  cheerful  board, 

Its  countless  comforts,  to  the  mind  suggest 

Virginia-welcome  to  the  greeted  guest. 

Yet,  not  in  this  sequestered  home,  so  sweet. 
Did  Albert  and  the  guileless  Evelyn  meet. 
But  far  across  the  hoarse  Atlantic's  roar 
Afar  beyond  her  dear  Virginia's  shore. 
Beneath  the  blue  of  love-enkindling  skies. 
Where  love,  once  born,  burns  deep,  but  never  dies- 
In  lands  of  classic  lore  and  deeds  sublime — 
Italia's  flowery  soil  and  sunny  clime. 

In  Florence,  on  a  summer's  afternoon. 
One  dreamy  day  of  blossom-dropping  June, 
With  thoughtful  brow,  and  kindling  eye  intent, 
A  Tuscan  painter  o'er  his  pallet  bent, 


Evelyn.  ; 

The  blended  colors  on  his  canvas  beamed 

With  living  light.     The  blue-veined  temples  seemed 

To  swell  indignant,  and  with  crimson  flush, 

To  glow  beneath  the  touches  of  his  brush : 

Soft  smiles,  resplendent  as  the  Orient  day, 

Around  the  radiant  eyes  appeared  to  play, 

Anon,  to  nestle  in  the  dimpled  cheek. 

As  now,  the  trembling  lips  would  seem  to  speak. 

Or  quivering,  part,  to  murmur  forth  a  sigh. 

Like  silver-toned  Eolian  melody. 

Twas  Leonardo's  skill  which  thus  portrayed 
This  breathing  semblance  of  a  beauteous  maid, 
And  long  he  labored  to  depict  each  charm, 
Then  drooped  his  head  upon  his  weary  arm, 
And  gazing  on  the  work  his  hands  had  wrought, 
In  vain  he  strove  to  crush  the  rising  thought — 
One  thought  indelible,  that  would  not  die — 
A  life-long  memory  of  days  gone  by — 
Till  weary  Nature,  watchful  of  her  claim, 
Enrapped  in  gentle  sleep  his  aged  frame. 

In  dreams  he  lives  his  happy  childhood  o'er , 
He  looks  into  his  Lucia's  eyes  once  more ; 
Nor  hears  he  now  the  opening  of  the  door, 
The  studied,  noiseless  step  across  the  floor, 


8  Evelyn. 

Nor  sees  his  graceful  Pupil  near  him  stand, 
Till  lightly  touched  by  Albert's  friendly  hand, 
He  wakes,  and  troubled,  starting  from  his  dreams, 
His  gray  locks  glistening  in  the  sunset  beams. 
He  anxious  asks  :     **And  thou  art  come,  my  boy  ! 
Hast  seen  her,  Albert,  and  canst  give  me  joy  ? 
Does  Lucia  live  ?     Hast  left  her  at  Lausanne, 
Or  lies  she  ill,  a  stranger,  in  Milan  ? 
Go  !  bring  her,  boy  !     Go  !  tell  her  she  must  come 
With  husband,  Evelyn,  all,  to  share  my  home, 
And  say,  *  'tis  Leonardo  begs  the  bliss — 
The  playmate  of  her  girlhood  asks  her  this.'  " 

Then  answers  Albert :     "  Sir,  be  quiet  now  ; 
Too  oft  hath  fever  flushed,  of  late,  that  brow ; 
So  come — I  pray  thee,  do  not  labor  late. 
Our  cariole  waits  us  at  the  garden  gate !  " 

"  Stay  !  Albert,  I  was  dreaming,  ere  you  came, 
Oi  days  gone  by,  ere  this  old  shattered  frame 
Had  bent  with  age.     I  walked,  methought,  once  more, 
A  youth,  along  the  Adriatic's  shore, 
And  o)ie  was  with  me  there,  whom,  tho'  a  child, 
I  vainly  loved  with  love  intense,  as  wild 
As  those  rough  waters  rushing  o'er  yon  reef — 
Arno's  rude  mockery  of  mortal  grief 

How  oft  my  hours  of  boyhood  were  beguiled 


Evclytt. 

Wy  Lucia's  smiles !     And,  yet,  she  never  smiled 
Whene'er  I  talked  of  love !     The  years  wore  on- 
Long  years  to  one  whose  light  of  light  was  gone 
In  vain,  I  worshipped  at  another's  shrine, 
In  vain,  I  thought  to  drown  my  woes  in  wine  ; 
I  cursed,  at  length,  my  Fate,  and  followed  Fame. 
Meanwhile  from  o'er  the  seas  a  stranger  came — 
A  pleasing  youth,  who  won  my  Lucia's  hand, 
And  took  her  with  him  to  his  far-off  land. 
He  was  your  countryman,  my  boy,  and  none 
Denied  him  worthy  of  the  love  he  won. 
Full  many  a  flying  year  since  then  hath  past 
With  Lethe  on  its  wings  ;  and  Time,  at  last, 
Hath  lightened  Disappointment's  poignant  pains, 
And  friendship  only  now  for  her  remains. 

'Tis  told  that  Lucia  lived  in  easy  wealth. 
Nor  lost  the  beauty  of  her  blooming  health, 
Till  two  hard  winters  gone,  a  flowery  flush 
Played  o'er  each  roseate  cheek — a  hectic  blush — 
The  kiss  of  wan  Consumption's  wasting  breath — 
Red,  rosy  trophies  of  the  conqueror,  Death. 

As  some  fair  shrinking  bird,  in  winter-time. 
Will  seek  the  shelter  of  a  milder  clime. 
So  Lucia  left  her  home  across  the  sea 
For  warmer  skies — her  own  sweet  Italy. 


lO  Evelyn. 

Her  ills  beyond  the  skill  of  mortal  man, 
In  early  spring  I  saw  her  in  Milan, 
Her  husband,  anxious,  bending  o'er  her  couch. 
As  Evelyn  soothed  her  with  her  softest  touch  ; 
We  watched  her  wasted  form  and  wan  white  cheek 
Her  faint  smile  made  me  weep.     I  heard  her  speak 
From  sweet,  pale  lips — her  lustrous,  lovely  eye 
Illumed  with  light  of  Immortality." 

As  Leonardo  turns  to  hide  a  tear, 
His  pupil  speaks  :     "  Sir,  pardon  me,  but  there 
Upon  that  breathing  canvas  thou  has  set 
A  face,  it  seems  not  easy  to  forget ; 
The  more  its  faultless,  faithful  lines  I  scan, 
The  more,  methinks,  I  have  seen  it  in  Milan." 

"Aye,  likely  boy !     Tis  Lucia's  matchless  face, 
And  yet  in  Lucia  now,  'twere  hard  to  trace 
The  rounded  fullness  of  that  girlish  grace ; 
From  memory,  boy,  that  beauty  I  impart. 
The  fadeless  memory  of  a  faithful  heart ; 
'Twas  thus  she  once  upon  my  pathway  smiled — 
As  such  I  loved  her  then — a  laughing  child ; 
With  that  sweet  face  the  evening  I've  beguiled. 
And  fondly  gazing  on  it,  gazing,  dreamed — 
A  sudden,  deathly  pallor  o'er  it  seemed 
To  spread — anon,  a  smile,  as  angels  wear, 


Evelyn,  1 1 

In  momentary  splendor  lingered  there : 
Methought  it  moved  ;  and  then  a  whisper  said  : 
*  Weep,  Leonardo  !  for  thy  Lucia  's  dead  ! '  " 

The  old  man  paused,  and,  sighing,  turned  away, 
As  Albert  answer  made  :     "  'Twas  but  the  play 
Upon  your  canvas  of  the  dying  day — 
The  flushing  of  the  sunset's  parting  beam — 
But  then  that  dream — it  seems  '  not  all  a  dream' 
For  yesterday,  at  fall  of  eventide, 
Thy  loved  and  lovely  Lucia  gently  died." 

'Tis  morning  in  Milan :  the  great  Cathedral's  pon- 
derous gate 

And  iron  doors,  now  harshly  on  their  heavy  hinges 
grate : 

With  muffled,  measured  tread,  in  sombre  march,  a 
mournful  few 

Are  onward  slowly  moving  thro'  the  light  bespan- 
gling dew ; 

A  funeral-bell  hath  early  tolled  its  tones  of  wild  des- 
pair. 

Its  death-like  sullen  dirge  hath  died  upon  the  startled 
air: 

The  hollow  throats  of  organs  peal  their  brazen  notes — 
the  while, 


1 2  Evelyn. 

A  cortege  bears  a  coffined  form  along  the  lengthy  aisle. 
And  softly,  with  the  incense,  to  the  stuccoed  ceiling 

floats 
A  slowly  chanted  melody  of  melancholy  notes  : 

"  What  tho'  the  loved  form  lieth 
'Neath  the  dark  and  dismal  sod, 

We  know  the  spirit  flieth 
To  the  bosom  of  its  God  : 

"  What  tho'  our  bodies  perish — 
Earth  to  earth,  and  dust  to  dust ! 

Are  there  not  hopes  to  cherish — 
Fondest  hopes  in  which  to  trust  ? 

"  ]\Iourn  not  the  dear  departed, 
For  in  Death  there  is  no  sting ! 

Look  up,  ye  broken-hearted  ! 

Lo !  the  Cross,  to  which  we  cling ! 

*'W^hat  tho'  the  loved  form  lieth 
In  the  Grave's  polluting  breath. 

We  know  the  Soul  defieth 

All  that  thou  canst  do,  oh,  Death  !  " 

Sepulchral   Psalms   and    Choral  chants   have   ceased 
their  sounds  o'erhead, 


Evelyn.  1 3 

The  surpliced  Priest  hath  read  the  solemn  Ritual  of 

the  Dead, 
Now  friendly  mourners  slowly  step  behind  that  sable 

bier, 
Whilst  Evelyn,  by  her  father's  side,  conceals  the  fall- 
ing tear; 
And   Leonardo,  too,  hath  wept   o'er   Lucia's  dusky 

pall, 
And  shrinks  to  hear  the  cold,  dank  clods  upon  her 

coffin  fall ; 
The  silent  grave  hath  o'er  her  closed.      She  sleeps, 

Death's  pale,  pale  bride — 
As  sweet  a  flower  as  e'er  hath  bloomed,  or  e'er  in 

June  hath  died. 

II. 

The  long,  soft  Summer  days  have  come  and  gone, 
And  Evelyn's  fair  young  face,  no  longer  wan 
And  wet  with  grief,  its  wonted  color  wears. 
And  oft  she  smiles,  as  erst  in  earlier  years. 

Within  the  sound  of  Arno's  dashing  foam, 
Where  the  rough  waters  of  the  river  roam 
Around  the  base  of  rugged  Appenine, 
'Twixt  banks  of  jasmine  and  the  eglantine, 
A  Tuscan  villa  rears  its  sunlit  dome — 


14  Evelyn, 

'Tis  Leonardo  Vecchi's  summer  home. 
Within  its  walls  hath  Evelyn's  father  found 
Relief  from  care,  and  oft  those  halls  resound 
With  Albert's  Chorus,  mingling  with  the  strains 
Of  Evelyn's  music,  as  the  evening  wanes  ; 
And,  sometimes,  when  the  air  is  softly  calm, 
This  youthful  pair  is  rambling  in  the  balm 
Of  eventide,  to  watch  the  eddying  flow 
Of  Arno  wandering  on  its  way  below. 
Or,  slowly  strolling  thro'  some  sylvan  vale, 
When  fire-flies  twinkle  in  the  twilight's  pale, 
They  list  the  warblings  of  the  nightingale. 

'Twas  thus  the  Summer  and  the  Autumn  past. 
And  Winter  with  its  rude  Trans-Alpine  blast, 
Around  "  fair  Florence"  too  benign  to  roar. 
Grows  milder  as  he  nears  the  Tuscan  shore. 
And,  now,  in  orange  groves  the  orioles  sing 
Their  grateful  paeans  to  returning  Spring ; 
Around  the  oak  more  closely  clings  the  vine, 
And  tender  hearts  more  closely  yet  entwine  ; 
Whilst  blossoms  catch  the  kisses  of  the  dew, 
And  maidens  meditate,  and  lovers  woo. 

'Tis  twilight's  quickening  time — the  trysting  hour 
Of  Orient  climes,  when  trembling  leaf  and  flower 


Evelyn.  1 5 

Are  shimmering  in  the  starh'ght's  silver  sheen, 
And  silence  softens  all  the  sleeping  scene. 

Against  the  Gothic  gate,  she  holds  ajar. 
Sweet  Evelyn  leans,  more  brilliant  than  the  star 
Her  eyes  have  sought.     With  crimson*lips  apart, 
Her  life-blood  bounding  thro'  her  heart, 
She  lists  to  wooing  words,  which  welcome  steal 
Within  her  soul — Affection's  first  appeal. 

What  wonder  is  there  Albert  should  adore 
This  young  and  lovely  girl — that  he  should  pour 
His  wealth  of  love  on  one  so  good  and  fair, 
And  warmly  breathe  it  in  her  willing  ear  ? 

Like  faint-remembered  parts  of  some  soft  dream, 
Young  Albert's  fervent  tones  to  Evelyn  seem  ; 
As   some    sweet   thought,  the    more    'tis   pondered 

o'er, 
The  mind  admits  as  once  conceived  before, 
So  dormant  love,  within  her  spirit  stirred. 
Enkindles  newly  with  each  whispered  word. 
These  vows  and  burning  words,  in  Evelyn's  breast, 
Have  warmed  to  flame  a  fervor  unconfest — 
Love's  latent  sparks — its  half-extinguished  gleams 
Her  heart  hath  harbored  but  in  flitting  dreams ; 
And  yet,  alas !  these  throbbings  must  be  hushed — 
Her  love,  requited — by  denial  crushed ! 


1 6  Evelyn. 

'     The  fiat  of  a  father's  iron  will 
Hath  quivered  in  her  soul  with  sudden  thrill  ; 
Before  her  Memory  stands,  Iconoclast, 
A  startling  spectre  of  the  buried  Past — 
That  hand  betfothed  ere  e'en  to  girlhood  grown, 
That  hand,  by  Albert  asked,  is  not  her  own — 
'Tis  this  she  murmurs  in  her  lover's  ear — 
By  kind  unkindness  dooms  him  to  despair. 

With  sinking  heart,  another's  promised  bride, 
Hath  sorrowing  Evelyn  shrunk  from  Albert's  side. 
O'er  Evelyn's  tingling  cheek  and  Albert's  woe, 
Come  Night,  kind  Night,  thy  veiling  vesture  throw. 

Time's  deep  discordant  tones  from  yonder  tower 
Hath  tolled  the  midnight's  melancholy  hour; 
The  rolling  river,  with  its  ceaseless  moan. 
Makes  lone,  sad  hearts  feel  sadder  and  more  lone. 
Whilst  Evelyn  struggles  with  a  vain  regret, 
Her  sleepless  pillow  with  her  weeping  wet. 
And  other  eyes  there  are,  which  cannot  sleep — 
Aye,  other  eyes  that  would,  but  cannot  weep  : 
Whole  years  of  thought,  of  sober,  solemn  thought. 
And  high  resolves  that  teeming  brain  hath  wrought 
Thro'  that  long  night,  and  ere  the  early  dawn 
A  rider  leaves  the  gate.     Tis  Albert  gone! 


Evclytu  17 

Gone,  ay,  gone — but  he  knows  not,  cares  not  where! 
Ay,  gone  for  many  a  lone  and  weary  year! 
Gone  from  the  mellow  meads  and  Tuscan  vales ! 
Gone  from  the  soft  songs  of  the  nightingales  ! 
Gone  from  the  citron-groves,  where,  side  by  side, 
He  walked  with  his  love  in  the  eventide ! 
Gone,  with  a  load  of  grief  upon  his  breast ! 
Anywhere,  anywhere  to  find  him  rest ! 

'Tis  night — an  Indian-summer's  softest  night — 

Tis  late,  and  the  great  city  seems  to  sleep ; 

The  pale  stars  only  their  long  vigils  keep, 
]Mellowing  harsh  angles  with  their  silver  light ; 
The  City  rests — and  motionless  lies  all. 

Save  in  one  quarter,  thro'  the  lighted  doors 
And  curtained  windows  of  a  princely  hall 

A  flood  of  merriment  and  music  pours. 
Within  is  Northern  Fashion's  rich  display, 

For  Philadelphia's  fairest  of  her  fair. 
Her  wealth  and  pride,  her  gallant  and  her  gay, 

With  sober  age  and  jocund  youth  are  there. 
The  hours  to  gladness  and  the  dance  belong, 
To  wine  and  wit,  to  sentiment  and  song; 
Here  Matrons  prim  with  gray-haired  Sires  converse, 
There  moneyed  Merchants  talk  of  Stock  and  Burse : 


1 8  Evelyn. 

Now  Prudence  shocked,  is  whispering  of  the  faults 
Of  belles  less  modest,  whirling  in  the  waltz, 
Whilst  timid  girlhood,  with  its  furtive  glance, 
Regards  the  bashful  boy  who  claims  the  dance. 

But  follow  we  that  form  in  spotless  white — 
Yon  flitting  form,  so  fairy-like  and  light — 
See !  how  she  walks  the  newly  waxen  floor, 
As  now  she  passes  thro'  the  spacious  door ! 
Beyond  the  bustling  ball-room's  fitful  glare. 
To  breathe  the  moisture  of  the  morning  air, 
With  memory  busy  at  her  bosom's  core, 
She  seeks  the  quiet  of  the  corridor. 

Alas!  the  heavy  heart  may  wear,  awhile, 
Before  the  careless  world,  its  gayest  smile. 
And  mirth  may  sparkle  in  the  tear-wet  eye, 
Like  sunshine  thro'  September's  hazy  sky. 
But  soon  that  clouded  heart,  surcharged  with  grief, 
Must  wildly  break,  or  weeping,  find  relief! 

That  fair,  familiar  face  is  once  more  wan, 
That  winning  smile  she  lately  wore  is  gone ; 
Her  tapering  fingers  to  her  young  heart  prest, 
The  starlight  stealing  o'er  her  snow-white  breast, 
Her  pale,  pale  lips  apart,  she  breathes  a  prayer, 
Whilst  in  her  eye  there  sits  a  trembling  tear. 
But  scarce  upon  her  lips  her  prayer  hath  died, 


Evelyn,  19 

When  stealing,  like  a  spectre,  to  her  side. 
That  kinsman,  whom  her  inmost  spirit  loathed — 
Her  slighted  suitor,  scorned — her  feared  betrothed, 
Whom    from     her    shrinking    side,    erst-while    she 

spurned — 
Her  evil  genius  hath  again  returned, 
And,  there,  beneath  the  dusky  night's  noon-tide 
Hath  clasped  and  claimed  her  as  his  promised  bride. 

"Ah,  yes  !  "  he  whispers  low,  with  flushing  brow, 
"Ah,  yes !  proud  Evelyn,  you  may  scorn  me  now. 
But,  by  your  father's  pledged  and  solemn  vow. 
By  every  word  these  lips  have  ever  spoke, 
By  Andrew  Hunter's  oath,  which  ne'er  was  broke, 
And  by  our  kindred  blood,  I  tell  thee  here, 
Come  weal,  or  woe,  by  foul  means,  or  by  fair, 
That,  spurn  me  as  you  will,  this  hand  of  thine — 
That  heart — thy  haughty  self  shall  yet  be  mine." 

His  grasp  is  loosed ;  then  speaks  her  woman's  heart  : 
"  Now  hear  me,  Andrew  Hunter,  ere  we  part ! 
By  Him  who  rules  our  hearts — our  God  above — 
By  Him,  who  knits  together  hearts  in  love. 
By  that  unseen — that  lythe,  mysterious  chain. 
By  which  are  linked  in  one  the  wedded  twain, 
By  all  the  virtues  which  the  soul  adorn, 
I  tell  thee,  sir,  this  breast  recoils  with  scorn 


20  Evelyn. 

From  hollow  nuptial  vows,  unblest  above — 
From  empty  oaths  that  give  the  lie  to  love." 

The  restless  wheels  of  Time  are  rolling  on, 
Year  after  year  on  sombre  wing  hath  gone ; 
Again  Glen  Arvon's  garnished  walls  repeat 
The  sound  of  Evelyn's  lightly  falling  feet. 
Sole  mistress  of  that  cottage  she  presides, 
By  all  beloved,  and  oft  she  gently  guides 
Her  aged  father  to  his  cushioned  chair. 
Then  steals  away  to  hide  the  anxious  tear, 
That  will  unbidden  start  from  eyes,  as  sweet 
As  e'er  a  father's  fondest  gaze  did  meet. 
And  sometimes,  too,  those  love-lit  eyes  are  dim 
With  tears ;  and  yet  those  tears  are  not  for  him, 
But  nightly,  as  she  lowly  kneels  to  pray, 
She  weeps  and  prays  for  one  who  's  far  away — 
Aye,  far  away,  alas  !  she  knows  not  where — 
She  only  feels,  to  her  how  deeply  dear 
(Neath  Arctic  skies,  or  Bengal's  burning  sun,) 
Is  now  the  welfare  of  that  absent  one. 
And  ofttimes,  too,  he  is  flitting  thro'  her  dreams, 
As  once  he  was,  or  else  he  lifeless  seems, 
A  lonely  corse,  with  glazed  and  ghastly  eye 
Forever  gazing  on  the  glaring  sky. 


Evelyn.  2 1 

And,  thus,  passed  Evelyn's  girlhood  sadly  by. 
Meanwhile,  those  fearful  years  are  drawing  nigh, 
Which  soon  must  shake  her  country  from  its  base. 
And  sweep,  like  Simoom,  o'er  her  haughty  race. 
E'en  now,  those  wrathful  clouds  are  lowering  nigh. 
Which,  tinged  with  blood,  bedim  the  Nation's  sky — 
E'en  now,  the  muttering  of  the  storm  is  heard — 
From  realm  to  realm  the  peaceful  land  is  stirred, 
Whilst  Freedom,  turning  pale  with  sad  affright, 
Hath  plumed  her  wings  prelusive  to  her  flight ! 

That  noble  fabric  by  our  fathers  reared, 
By  blood  cemented,  and  by  all  revered, 
Alas !  is  tottering  now,  for  Discord  there 
Hath  dwelt,  with  angry  look,  for  many  a  year ; 
See  Tyrant-rule,  defiant  of  the  Right, 
Hath  throned  itself  despotic  in  its  might, 
And  sends  its  minions  thro'  the  startled  land 
In  mad  career,  with  naked  steel  in  hand. 
Till  Justice,  yielding  all  that  she  can  yield. 
Hath  drawn  her  Sword,  and  bears  aloft  her  Shield  ! 

III. 

The  moon  looks  down  on  Eutaw's  classic  plain, 
Where  sleep  the  ashes  of  the  silent  slain. 
Where  fourscore  years  of  winter- winds  and  rains 


22  Evelyn. 

Have  scarce  effaced  the  conflict's  crimson  stains. 
Beside  the  sunken  graves  of  hero-sires 
Unflinching  sons  have  lit  their  signal  fires, 
Which    call   the    young    and   old   from    home    and 

hearth, 
And  check  the  maidens  in  their  Christmas  mirth, 
Whilst  weeping  wives  lament  their  parting  ones, 
And  mothers  mourn  o'er  battle-summoned  sons. 
'Tis  Carolina  calls — they  cannot  pause — 
Their  lots  are  linked  in  one  great  common  cause  ; 
To  Carolina  right — or  Carolina  wrong — 
Their  lives,  their  fortunes  and  themselves  belong : 
Few  words  they  speak ;  in  councils  bold,  but  brief, 
They  gather  round  their  gallant,  chosen  chief; 
Beneath  yon  flag,  that  flaps  the  frosty  air, 
'Tis  Albert  Ashleigh's  voice  breaks  silence  there : 

'*  Sons  of  the  South,"  he  cries,  "  awake  ! 

To  arms  !     'Tis  your  Country's  call ! 
She  bids  you  battle  for  her  sake, 

Or  with  her  Freedom  fall  : 
Forth  to  the  field  go  meet  the  foe, 
Defend  her  with  your  best  blood's  flow : 
To  arms  !     Give  blow  for  blow 

In  Freedom's  Cause ! 


Evelyn.  23 

"Sons  of  the  injured  South,  arise! 

To  your  native  land's  release ! 
Be  deaf  to  cries  of  '  Compromise  ' — 

To  coward  calls  for  '  Peace : ' 
Noiu  is  the  day  :  no  longer  wait, 
She  bids  you  nozu  decide  her  fate ; 
Arm  !  ere  it  be  too  late, 

In  Freedom's  Cause ! 

"  Men  of  the  South  !  what  wait  ye  for  ? 

Your  enemy  is  in  the  field ; 
'Irrepressible'  is  the  war — 

Ye  must  not — cannot  yield  : 
Must  Southern  men  their  wrongs  be  taught? 
Can  men,  born  free,  so  base  be  brought  ? 
Fight — as  your  fathers  fought 

In  Freedom's  Cause ! 

"  Lo!  the  proud  flash  of  Beauty's  eye 

Trusts  her  Country  to  your  care ! 
She  bids  you  to  the  battle  hie ; 

Go  with  her  holy  prayer : 
On!  while  a  hostile  soul  survives! 
On!  for  your  sisters  and  your  wives  ! 
Your  Honor  and  your  lives 

In  Freedom's  Cause ! 


24  Evelyn, 

"The  Lord  of  Justice  knows  your  wrongs, 
He  will  be  your  Strength  and  Shield  ; 

To  craven  slaves  alone  belongs 
The  spirit  that  could  yield : 

Think  of  your  Country's  honored  dead — 

Marion's  brave  men  o'er  Eutaw  led — 

Remember  how  they  bled 

In  Freedom's  Cause ! 

"  Men  of  the  suffering  South,  arise  ! 

There  is  a  victory  to  be  won : 
The  glorious  work  before  you  lies : 

The  battle  is  begun  : 
Up  with  the  Red-cross  !     On,  ye  brave  ! 
Let  its  proud  folds  in  triumph  wave, 
Or — 'neath  it  find  a  grave 

In  Freedom's  Cause ! 

"To  arms!  to  arms!  your  Country  save: 

On  God  rely : 

Your  foe  defy : 
Fixed  on  the  Red-cross  every  eye — 

Oh !  let  it  wave 

O'er  spirits  brave, 
Resolved  to  do — or  die 

In  Freedom's  Cause  !  " 


Evelyn.  25 

Thus  Albert  speaks.     A  hundred  youthful  braves, 
Above  whose  heads  "the  Red-cross"  banner  waves, 
Beside  him  kneel  on  Eutaw's  classic  sod, 
And  there  commit  their  Country's  Cause  to  God — 
Beneath  the  stars  of  that  cold  Christmas  sky 
They  swear  in  Freedom's  Cause  to  do — or  die. 

Ah !  many  a  tear,  that  widowed  hearts  have  wept, 
Attests  how  well  that  faithful  vow  is  kept  : 
From  solemn  Sumter's  sea-girt,  shaken  rock, 
To  desperate  Antietam's  shivering  shock. 
On  many  a  bloody  charge,  by  Albert  led. 
On  many  a  gory  field  they  leave  their  dead, 
Till  few  of  all  this  Patriot-band  remain — 
The  living  few  that  mourn  the  many  slain. 

Again    'tis    night — a    moonless,    black    December 
night ; 
Strange  sounds   are   heard    from    Stafford's   cannon- 
crested  height — 
Mysterious  sounds,  commingling  with  the  murmur- 
ing flow 
Of  Rappahannock  rilshing  o'er  its  rocks  below  : 
All  night  the  whispered  bidding,  and  the  muffled  oar, 
Have   reached   the   ear   on    Spottsylvania's    guarded 
shore, 
3 


26  Evelyn. 

Where  lie  those  veteran  "  Leesburg-heroes,"  undis- 
mayed— 
The  iron-hearted  Barksdale,  and  his  brave  Brigade. 
Three  times,  their  stubborn  foes  have  sought  the 
Southern  bluff, 
Three  times  their  bridge  of  boats  has  spanned  the 

waters  rough, 
Before  the  Mississippians'  deadly  rifle  fire, 
Three  times,  their  reeling  ranks  with  bleeding  steps 

retire  : 
Full  fifteen  hours,  with  crashing  shot  and  shrieking 

shell, 
They  storm  the  cliff— at  length,  with  one  loud,  thrill- 
ing yell. 
Those  cruel  hordes  have  crossed  the  troubled  stream. 
And  o'er  the  quaking  hills  their  bristling  bayonets 

gleam. 
Now  all  the  vales  are  torn  by  galling  cannonade, 
God  help  that  small,  heroic  band — that  bold  brigade — 
Which  will  not  turn  and  flee,  but,  foot  by  foot,  disputes 
The  City's  ancient  soil,  which  savage  foe  pollutes, 
Till  night  hath   gathered   o'er   that    City's    toppling 

spires. 
That  Ghoul-like  gleam  before  the  foemen's  flickering 
fires. 


Evelyn.  27 

The  long  night  wanes.    The  picket,  on  his  silent  post, 
Keeps  cautious,  constant  watch  o'er  Burnside's  slum- 
bering host  : 
Sleep  on — for  ere  to-morrow's  evening  stars  will  rise, 
Full  many  a  one,  in  Death's  cold  sleep,  will  close  his 
eyes  ! 

Long  rolls  the  loud  Rev^eille-drum.  The  Army 
wakes. 

O'er  Fred'ricksburg's  now  warlike  streets  the  morn- 
ing breaks, 

Whilst  'gainst  the  sky  "the  Southern  Cross"  is  seen 
to  shine — 

'Tis  lion-hearted  Lee  in  long-drawn  battle  line. 

Lo !  war-worn  Longstreet's  veteran  Corps,  in  grim 
array, 

In  moody,  anxious  silence,  waiting  for  the  fray ! 

See,  yonder  comes  the  young,  but  wondrous  can- 
noneer— 

Prompt  Pelham,  glancing  o'er  his  guns  with  prudent 
care ! 

And  Stuart,  too,  the  dauntless,  dashing  cavalier. 

The  Knightly  son  of  Scotland's  kingly  line,  is  there  ; 

His  Falcon-eye  hath  spied  fierce  Sumner's  chosen 
corps, 


28  Evelyn. 

In  double-quick-time,  charging  'cross  the  hazy  moor: 
Then  rings  that  clarion  voice :     "  Up  !    Gunners,   to 

your  posts! 
Aim  well,  my  gallant  men!     Hurl  back  the  hireling 

hosts !  " 
One  mingled  burst  of  smoke:  one  long,  low-rumbling 

sound — 
War's  iron  messengers,  with  ricochetting  bound. 
Have  smote  the  staggered  foe,  and  in  one  common 

mound, 
The  dying  and  the  dead  bestrew  the  frozen  ground. 
A  moment — and    their    rallying    ranks    have   closed 

again: 
With  grim,  defiant  shout  they   shake  the  trembling 

plain  : 
A  hundred  answering  cannon,  in  their  ruthless  ire, 
O'er  hill  and  glade  are  belching  forth  their  vengeful 

fire. 

But  who  is  he,  that  furious,  frenzied  io^  must  front — 
Whose  bulwark-breast  must  bravely  bear  the  battle's 

brunt  ? 
Behold  him  there  with  lofty  look,  almost  divine, 
Fleet  as  the  Lightning,  lead  his  Legions  into  line  I 
As  sweeps  the  swift  Sirocco  o'er  the  Syrian  main, 


Evelyn.  29 

And   leaves  within   its  track  a  wrecked  and  ruined 

train: 
Now    here,    now  there — with    thunder-force — above, 

below, 
He  hurls  his  conquering  columns  'gainst  the  charging 

foe : 
Ah !  woe  betide  the  rash  assailants  that  essay 
To  cope,  on  battle-field,  with  Jackson's  giant-sway — 
Resistless  Jackson — besom  of  the  bloody  fray ! 

Meantime,  not  all  the  numbers  of  those  Northern 

hordes — 
Not  all  the  pristine  prowess  of  their  Country's  swords 
Can  storm  that  wall  before  Marve's  embattled  hei^jht, 
Where  Kershaw  and   McLaws   unflinching   face  the 

fight: 
Lo  !  trooping  o'er  the  dale,  in  dashing,  martial  style, 
See  Meagher's  stalwart  men  of  Erin's  distant  isle  ! — 
Fierce  scions  of  that  fiery  race,  which  won  at  Waterloo 
And  Fontenoy's  field  of  blood,  come  bursting  into 

view ! 

Their  starry  banners  waved  on  high, 
Their  bayonets  gleaming  'gainst  the  sky. 
The  Armies  of  the  South  defy — 
Her  chosen  chivalry : 


30  Evelyn. 

Forward  they  come 
With  'larum  drum, 
Thro'  sun  and  shade, 
Neath  cannonade 
And  musketry ! 

The  smoke,  in  columns,  laps  the  plain, 
The  din,  that  swells  above  the  main. 
Is  echoed  o'er  the  hills  again 
In  dreadful  harmony ! 
Neath  shot  and  shell. 
With  shout  and  yell. 
They  cross  the  glade 
And  esplanade. 
Aye,  gallantly ! 

On!  on!  they  come! — too  late  to  pause- 
They  dash  against  the  grim  McLaws, 
Onward,  into  the  very  jaws 
Of  Death,  undauntedly ! 
Their  muskets  flash ! 
Their  bayonets  clash ! 
O'er  mangled  dead 
The  living  tread 
Unsteadily ! 


Evelyn.  3 1 

As  when  rough  billows,  breaking  o'er 
The  reefs  of  Hatteras'  boisterous  shore, 
Are  ebbing  to  the  sea  once  more, 
Receding  rapidly, 
So  backward  borne, 
With  banners  torn, 
Athwart  the  glen 
These  maddened  men 
Press  franticly ! 

Now  sinks  the  blood-red  setting  sun  ; 
Hushed  is  the  hot,  yet  smoking  gun  ; 
The  strife  is  o'er ;  the  South  has  won 
That  dear-bought  victory. 
That  goiy  field 
The  foemen  yield — 
Their  bravest  quail. 
Whilst  pennons  trail 
Despairingly! 

The  blushing   moon   is  peering   thro'   the    clouds 
o'erhead, 
Illuming  all  the  grisly  field  of  ghastly  dead : 
In  doleful  requiem,  the  night-winds'  fitful  moans, 
Anon,  are  mingling  with  the  parting  Spirits'  groans. 


32  Evelyn. 

See!  o'er  yon  well-known  form  a  group  of  soldiers 

sob ! 
'Tis  Longstreet's  martial  chieftain — Georgia's  gallant 

Cobb! 
Sleep  on,  thou  martyred  hero!   in  thy  glory  sleep! 
Long  o'er  thy  gory  grave  shall  Georgia's  children  weep, 
And,  grateful  for  thy  many  deeds,  the  memory  keep 
Of  Cobb  and  Victory.     And,  there !  behold  a  bleed- 
ing one! 
That    "grand    old    Roman,"    Gregg,    his    Country's 

noblest  son, 
Who   fought   for    Freedom's  sake,  and   scorned   the 

world's  applause. 
The  first  to  draw  his  sword  in  suffering  Freedom's 

Cause : 
His  lips,  tho'  pale  and  parched,  with  life-blood  ebbing 

low, 
Are  whispering  words  of  cheer,  in  accents  faint  and 

slow — 
"  Let  Carolinians  know  how  cheerfully  I  die, 
Contending   for    their    Rights — their    Homes  —  and 

Liberty." 
Lo !  all  but  lifeless  lies,  on  yonder  litter  borne, 
A  loved,  but  humbler  one,  whom   faithful  comrades 

mourn ; 


Evelyn.  3  3 

With  tearful  eyes  and  swelling  breasts  they  bear  him  on 
O'er  field  and  tangled  fen,  and  up  the  open  lawn, 
Within  Glen  Arvon's  friendly  door,  where  tender  hands 
Await  to  welcome  weary  ones.     There  Evelyn  stands ! 
They  lay  him   at  her   feet,  their  blankets   o'er  him 

spread, 
They  leave  him  lying  there,  his  knapsack  'neath  his 

head : 
That  form  they  followed  oft  along  the  marches'  toil. 
Which  led  them  o'er  Manassas'  twice  victorious  soil  ; 
That  cheering  voice,  which  bade  them  "Charge"  at 

Malvern  Hill- 
That  form  seems  scarcely  breathing  now — that  voice 

is  still : 
His  brave  young  breast,  so  cruel  torn  by  foeman's  shot, 
Still  true  to  Evelyn  beats;  yet  Evelyn  knows  him  not, 
But,  patient,   lingers   there,    to   watch   his   wavering 

pulse. 
Whilst  pangs  of  racking  pain  his  fevered  frame  con- 
vulse. 

The  anxious   night   hath   passed,  whilst   Evelyn's 
careful  hands 
Have  smoothed  the  choicest  couch  her  father's  cot 
commands. 


34  Evelyn, 

The  Winter's  sun  creeps  slowly  up  the  vaulted  skies : 
But  once  has  Albert  Ashleigh  oped  his  languid  eyes, 
And  gazing  into  Evelyn's  face  with  sweet  surprise, 
Half-dreaming,  faintly  breathes  her  name.     Yet,  still 

he  sleeps, 
Whilst  Evelyn  o'er  his  couch  her  faithful  vigil  keeps  : 
She  sighs  in  secret  grief:  she  soothes  his  fevered  brow, 
Then  smiles  between  her  tears — because  she  knozvs  Jiim 

noiv! 

Oh  !  ye,  who  in  the  midst  of  Battle's  fiercest  storms, 
Have,  weary,  watched  and  prayed  o'er   loved   and 

bleeding  forms — 
Ye  weeping,  widowed  Rachels,  whose  heroic  worth, 
In  secret,  brightly  shone  beside  the  lonely  hearth, 
Who've  felt  War's  whelming  waters  o'er  you  coldly 

roll— 
Ye  know  what  waves  of  anguish  surged  o'er  Evelyn's 

soul ! 

IV. 

The  Winter  has  vanished :  the  roses  of  Spring 
Are  kissed  by  the  Sun  of  the  second  of  May ; 

The  birds  in  the  w^oodlands  bewitchingly  sing 
To  hearts,  at  Glen  Arvon,  that  are  happy  to-day. 


Evelyn.  3  5 

The  daffodils  bend  'neath  the  dew  of  the  dawn, 
And  pink-eyed  anemones  enamel  the  way, 

Whilst  tiny,  pale  daisies  look  up  from  the  lawn 
At  Evelyn  and  Albert,  who  are  walking  to-day. 

Adown  the  gray  rocks  the  rills  ripple  and  bound 
Far  over  the  meadows  in  rythm  and  play, 

With  many  a  mystical,  musical  sound, 

To  welcome  the  loved  and  the  loving  to-day. 

Yon  roguish  young  Robin,  in  flashing  red  vest, 
His  throat  all  aglow  with  the  joy  of  his  lay. 

Is  chirping  and  chatting  to  his  mate,  in  her  nest, 
Of  some  one  he  knows,  who  is  wooing  to-day. 

The  Lark  is  aloft !     See,  how  swiftly  she  flies  ! 

But  why  is  her  song  so  enchantingly  gay  ? 
She  laves  her  light  wing  in  the  blue  of  the  skies. 

And  warbles  of  one  who  is  happy  to-day. 

Adown  the  arched  West  sink  the  beams  of  the  Sun, 
Serenely  the  moments  are  passing  away ; 

Two  hearts,  at  the  Cottage,  are  beating  as  one — 
Two  hearts,  at  Glen  Arvon,  are  happy  to-day. 

The  evening  wanes.     Before  Glen  Arvon's  gate 
There  halts  a  Courier,  who  hath  ridden  late, 


;^6  Evelyn. 

And  hurried,  leaves  a  note  in  Albert's  hand — 
A  hasty  summons  to  his  new  command. 

No  time  for  words:  with  one  warm,  fond  adieu, 
Hath  Albert  crossed  the  fields  from  Evelyn's  view. 
Nor  turns,  nor  reins  his  onward,  quick  career, 
Till  warlike  sounds  have  smote  his  soldier-ear.     > 

Once  more,  before  Marye's  embattled  height 
Three  thousand  score  of  men,  at  dead  of  night, 
In  gloomy  line,  in  battle's  grim  array, 
Are  anxious  watching  for  the  coming  day. 

Just  as  the  first  red  streaks  of  early  dawn 
Have  lit  with  life  the  Sabbath's  sacred  morn. 
The  foe,  in  phalanx  firm,  is  scaling  fast 
Marye's  rough  ramparts  to  the  trumpet's  blast. 
There  Barksdale  and  his  gallant  band,  again, 
Must  meet  the  shock  of  twenty  thousand  men : 
They  fight,  as  never  heroes  fought  before ; 
They  fight  till  running  rills  of  human  gore 
Have  drenched  the  hills,  yet  still  they  stubborn  stand 
Before  the  foe,  with  muskets  clubbed  in  hand. 
Then    'gainst   them    Sedgwick   bursts — his    columns 

massed — 
With  force  of  Avalanche,  his  hordes,  at  last. 
On  right  and  left,  have  turned  their  feeble  flanks, 
And  backward  bear  their  brave,  unbroken  ranks  : 


Evelyn,  37 

Still  Barksdaie  bays  his  foe;  he  will  not  flinch, 
But,  fighting,  yields  the  field,  now  inch  by  inch. 

Oh  !  for  the  daring  dash  of  Jackson  now  ! 
But  woeful  Sabbath  morn  !     O'er  Jackson's  brow, 
Alas !  the  dews  of  death  are  gathering  fast, 
Whilst  all  the  Nation,  wailing,  stands  aghast ! 

Behold  !  meanwhile  from  Sedgwick's  shouting  corps 
A  rampant  rabble  sweeping  cross  the  moor ! 
O'er  field,  o'er  fence  they  bound ;  thro'  brake  and  brush. 
In  reckless,  wild  career  they  onward  rush, 
And  trampling  o'er  Glen  Arvon's  peaceful  grounds. 
They  fiercely  yell,  till  all  the  vale  resounds. 

But  lo !  the  leader  of  that  lawless  crew — 
Yon  form,  which  shames  the  shameful  Northern  blue — 
Stained  Livery  of  Oppression's  retinue ! 
Does  trembling  Evelyn  mark  that  ruffian  face — 
The  ruthless  robber  of  her  ruined  race  ? 
Too  well,  alas !  that  gloating  eye  she  knows — 
Most  dreaded  of  her  Country's  dastard  foes ! 
Alas !  that  Andrew  Hunter's  traitor  hand 
Should  wield  his  sword  against  his  mother-land! 

Behold  him  rudely  pushing  thro'  that  door, 
Which  oft  has  kindly  welcomed  him  of  yore ! 


3  8  Evelyn. 

He  strides  across  the  Hall  to  Evelyn's  side, 
And  hails  her  roughly  as  his  "  Rebel  Bride." 
Quoth  he:  "Come,  Evelyn,  come — my  love — my  life — 
My  pretty  prisoner  now — ere  long,  my  wife." 

"  Thy  wife!  Sir!"  Evelyn  cries,  "I  own  with  shame, 
That  Andrew  Hunter  bears  my  noble  name  ; 
I  blush,  that  kindred  drops  course  thro'  our  veins : 
These  tingling  cheeks  confess  that  Treason  stains 
The  bright  Escutcheon  of  our  honored  race, 
But  'tis  thy  deeds  have  doomed  it  to  Disgrace  : 
Call  me  not  'wife.'     With  all  thy  subtlest  hate 
Strike  at  this  heart !     I'd  bless  thee  for  my  fate, 
Ere  I  would  wed  thee — traitor  to  thy  State!" 
"Preach  not  to  me,"  he  tauntingly  replies, 
"  More  specious  are  thy  Rebel  creeds  than  wise : 
Go  call  thy  father,  girl!  for  him  I  seek." 

^'  There  comes  my  father!  sir,  but  far  too  weak 
To  bear  the  cruel  words,  methinks,  thou'lt  speak." 
"  Well,  sir !  how  fares  it  with  mine  Uncle  now  ? 
It  seems  since  last  I  saw  that  loyal  brow. 
Full  many  a  trace  of  care  hath  o'er  it  crossed. 
And  War's  rough  years  have  added  to  the  frost 
Of  Winter  on  those  locks.     But  come!  'tis  late! 
To  business  now:  yon  Chaplain  at  the  gate. 
And  these,  my  soldiers  here,  my  bidding  wait." 


Evelyn.  39 

"Thy  business,  sir?  "  the  old  man  asks,  "Speak  on: 
What  tho'  thou  be  my  loved,  dead  Sister's  son, 
I  hate  the  deeds  thy  father's  race  hath  done ! 
Ye,  one  and  all — our  brethren  but  in  name — 
From  Pulpit  and  from  Press  our  land  defame ; 
With  foul-tongued  clamor  and  maligning  mouth, 
Ye  carp  and  cavil  at  the  hated  South : 
Ye  prate  of  peace,  and  yet,  in  savage  ire 
Ye  desolate  our  shores  with  war  and  fire — 
With  chains  and  swords  o'errun  our  peaceful  plains — 
Swords  for  the  valiant — for  the  vanquished,  chains  ! 
Your  flag  so  honored  once,  on  land  and  sea, 
So  long  the  symbol  of  a  people  free — 
That  flag,  which  rallied  erst  the  Nation's  braves, 
No  longer  o'er  their  gallant  lineage  waves, 
But  license  lends  to  mercenary  knaves, 
To  bind  us  'neath  its  folds  as  vanquished  slaves. 
Or  fill  our  smiling  South  with  bloody  graves ! 
With  earnest  pride  I,  too,  long,  long  upheld 
That  banner  once,  and  oft  this  heart  hath  swelled. 
Remembering  all  my  perils,  and  the  scars 
Received  beneath  its  conquering  Stripes  and  Stars ; 
But  I  have  marked  my  Country's  wrongs  and  woe — • 
Myself  have  felt  each  fratricidal  blow, 
That  makes  Virginia's  rich,  best  blood  to  flow. 


40  Evelyn. 

And  ne'er  again  can  call  that  flag  *my  own,' 
Which  costs  my  Country  one  complaining  groan." 

That  voice  is  hushed.    With  anger  scarce  controlled, 
The  Northman  quick  replies  :  "Thy  words  are  bold — 
Too  bold  for  one,  whose  loud  disloyal  tongue 
Had  best  be  silent ;  for  thou'lt  find,  ere  long, 
Thy  safety,  and  thine  Evelyn's  too.  depends 
On  whom,  as  foes,  thy  rebel  speech  offends." 

"Speak  on!     What  more  does  Tyranny  demand? 
Would'st  drive  me  helpless  from  my  house  and  land? 
If  blood  thou  seek'st,  thy  minions  I  defy; 
Thy  Grandsire's  son  will  teach  thee  how  to  die." 

"  Ye  are  my  prisoners — thou  and  Evelyn — both : 
I  claim  fulfillment  of  thy  plighted  troth — 
Thy  daughter's  hand:  renewal  of  thine  oath 
Of  true  allegiance  to  our  Nation's  laws. 
And  firm  resistance  to  this  Rebel  Cause. 
Refuse — and  naught  will  save  thee  from  the  doom 
Deserved,  for  yonder  torches  shall  consume 
These  loved,  these  venerable  ancestral  halls, 
Till  not  a  stone  of  all  Glen  Arvon's  walls 
Shall  one  upon  another  rest — till  all 
It  boasts  shall  in  one  common  ruin  fall." 

"Then  hear  me,  Andrew  Hunter!"  he  replies, 
"Thine  oath:  thy  high  behests,  I  all  despise: 


Evelyn.  41 

So  bid  your  heroes  to  their  valiant  work — 

Fit  deed  for  heart  of  Vandal  or  of  Turk : 

For  Tyrant !  I  would  see  my  daughter  dead 

By  my  own  act,  ere  I  would  have  her  wed 

The  traitor  hand,  to  which  that  sword  belongs — 

Foul,  bloody  symbol  of  her  country's  wrongs! 

Would'st  have  me  swear  allegiance  to  that  hand, 

AVhich  desolates  my  unoffending  land — 

That  hand,  which  e'en  its  own  Virginia  smites — 

Which,  ruthless,  robs  me  of  my  dearest  Rights  ? 

Ye  have  spoiled  me  of  my  own — my  all — 'tis  true! 

Thank  God!  ye  cannot  touch  my  Honor  too! 

Apply  your  torch!     Bind  on  oppression's  chains! 

Thank  God!  at  least,  my  Honor  yet  remains! 

Virginian  born — Virginian  I  will  die, 

And  meet  my  doom  without  one  coward  sigh!" 

Beneath  the  dark  shades  of  the  gathering  gloom, 
The  flames  of  Glen  Arvon  the  forests  illume! 
The  flashes  of  blaze  o'er  the  beeches  arise, 
The  smoke,  in  black  columns,  envelopes  the  skies  ; 
Tall  figures  of  foemen  are  gliding  about, 
Like  Demons  of  Darkness,  they  dance  and  they  shout, 
They  revel  and  gloat,  in  their  glee  and  their  hate — 
Poor  wretches!  nor  wot  they  their  terrible  fate! 


42  Evelyn. 

A  rider  hath  ridden,  all  reeking  and  hot, 
Post-haste  to  Glen  Arvon,  pursued  to  the  spot  : — 
"Now    quick!    to    your   ranks!    to   the    river!"    he 

cries, 
"The  Rebels  are  on  us;  we  have  suffered  surprise; 
^Ve  are  flanked;  we  are  routed  at  Chancellorsviile, 
Where  Jackson  has  fallen,  but  Stuart  and  Hill, 
Revenging  his  fate,  all  their  cohorts  have  massed, 
And  drive  us  before  them  as  leaves  on  the  blast, 
Whilst  Sedgwick,  defeated,  is  fast  falling  back 
With  Early  and  Wilcox  like  wolves  on  his  track!" 

His  warning  comes  late:  ere  its  echo  hath  died, 
A  troop  of  stout  horsemen  up  gallantly  ride — 
Young  Ashleigh  their  leader — as  cavalier  band 
As  sabre  e'er  drew  in  defence  of  their  land! 
Woe!  woe!  to  the  foemen,  who  fearfully  flee, 
Concealing  themselves  behind  bramble  and  tree ! 
As  Falcons  swoop  down  on  each  panic-struck  bird ! 
The  Southrons  surround  them — a  cowering  herd! 
The  Captors  are  Captive!  but  where  is  their  Chief 
Hath  wrought  on  Glen  Arvon  this  ruin  and  grief? 

What  warrior  so  valiant — what  soldier  so  bold 
Midst  frail,  feeble  women,  the  helpless  and  old. 
As  he,  who,  alarmed,  slinks  away  like  the  deer — 
The  first  to  scent  danger,  when  battle  is  near! 


Evelyn,  43 

But  Albert  is  weary  of  Carnage  and  Death, 
And  orders  his  horsemen  their  sabres  to  sheath : 
"No  blood   must  be  spilled!    Men,  remember!"  he 

cries, 
"For  'Vengeance  is  Mine,  saith  the   Lord'  of  the 

skies." 

Before  Glen  Arvon's  ruined  walls  there  stand 
Brave  Ashleigh  and  his  Evelyn,  hand  in  hand. 
Ah !  happy  Evelyn,  by  her  father  blest, 
Her  young  head  sheltered  on  his  aged  breast, 
Whilst  'neath  the  startled  Midnight's  dewy  air 
A  Chaplain  weds  the  Valiant  to  the  Fair ! 

Weird  wedding-lights,  those  waning  midnight  stars ! 
Strange  witnesses,  those  sturdy  Sons  of  Mars ! 
But  Venus  waits  on  bold  Minerva's  car. 
And  Love  must  yield  to  sterner  calls  of  War ! 

Off,  thro'  the  shadows  of  the  night's  noontide — 
Off,  'neath  the  solemn,  sombre  trees  they  ride ! 
"  God  shield  the  Soldier  and  his  long-loved  Bride!" 
"  God  bless  the  old  Virginian  by  their  side !" 
Off,  off  they  go,  with  blessings  and  the  prayers 
Of  gallant  Carolina  Cavaliers  I 


44  Evelyn. 

V. 

Near  two  and  twenty  months  of  anxious  hopes  and 

fears, 
Near  two  and  twenty  months  of  woman's  yearning 

tears, 
Near  two  and  twenty  mournful  months  have  passed 

away, 
Since  that  eventful,  oft-remembered  night  of  May ; 
Whilst,  far  from  fearful  scenes  of  battle  and  of  blood, 
Where,  close  by  Eutaw's  plain,  steals  Santee's  sullen 

flood, 
Beloved  of  friends,  'mid  all  that  easy  comfort  gives. 
In  Albert's  Carolina  home  his  Evelyn  lives — 
Yet  lonely  lives,  for  sleeping  'neath  the  stranger's  soil 
Her  father  rests,  forever  freed  from  war  and  toil, 
And  far  away,  on  many  a  field's  ensanguined  marge, 
Her   daring    Albert,   dauntless,   leads    the    desperate 

charge. 

Now,  War  hath  bared  anew  his  blood-red,  brawny 

arm ; 
Throughout  the  struggling  South  is  pealed  the  loud 

alarm ! 
The  Hydra-headed  io^  looms  up  from  out  the  West, 
And  proudly  lifts  aloft  his  cruel,  crimsoned  crest : 


Evelyn.  45 

His  countless  hosts  rush  down  o'er  Georgia's  fated  soil, 
Her  fairest  homes  destroy ;  her  Temples  all  despoil. 
What  now  avails  the  prowess  of  our  valiant  arms 
'Gainst  foes,  that  soon  as  fallen  rise  in  myriad  swarms? 
Alas  !  our  bootless  sacrifice  of  bravest  blood  ! 
What  arm  of  flesh  can  stay  the  whelming  Vandal- 
flood  ? 
Now  hourly  sinking  in  the  trembling  scale  of  Fate, 
No  hand,   it  seems,  can  save  our  shivering  Ship  of 

State : 
Our  Country's  Starry  Cross  is  seen  to  wane  on  high, 
And  ill-foreboding  darkness  dims  the  Southern  sky. 

Behold!  o'er  Carolina's  plains  the  Intruder  sweep! 
Behind  him  homesteads  smoke !  Lo !  wretched  women 

weep ! 
Behold  the  harrowing  scenes  of  torture  in  his  trail ! 
Hark!  starving  children  cry  !    Alas  !  the  woeful  wail ! 
And  now  he  nears  the  Santee's  myrtle-shaded  shore; 
O'er  Eutaw's  classic  field  his  merc'less  minions  pour: 
Heaven  help  poor  trembling  Evelyn  in   her  lonely 

woe, 
No  manly,  loving  arm  to  shield  her  from  the  foe ! 
On,   on  they  come !     Weep,  Evelyn,  weep    in  wild 

Despair! 


4^  Evelyn. 

The  Wolf  his  victim  seeks:  a  worse  than  foe  is  near; 
Thy  nest  he  knows !     Behold !  those  eyes  upon  thee 

glare ! 
Behold  the  Traitor,  Andrew  Hunter,  standing  there ! 

Torn  from  her  husband's  home  by  force  of  fiendish 
foe, 
As  Andrew  Hunter's  trembling  prize,  compelled  to  go, 
Now  long  and  bitterly  poor  Evelyn  weeps.  'Tis  vain : 
She  goes,  a  guarded  Captive,  in  the  Conqueror's  train; 
Beneath  her  Kinsman's  watchful  eye,  all  woe-begone, 
She  weeps  till  night,  and  thro'  the  dreary  night  till 
dawn. 

But,  ever  on  them,  both  another  Human  Eye, 
Tho'  never  seeming  near,  hath  played  the  cautious  spy  ; 
Familiar  with  each  spot,  it  marks  each  path  and  pass, 
And  deftly  follows  on  the  living,  moving  mass. 
But  never  Evelyn  recks,  that  Albert's  faithful  Slave 
Against  her  Captor  plots,  her  wretched  self  to  save. 

Another  night  is  nigh — another  night  in  camp. 
And  Evelyn,  shivering  in  the  evening's  piercing  damp, 
The  foemen's  fire   hath   sought — her   look   of  blank 

despair 
Gives   way   to   wakened    Hope — that   honest    Slave 
draws  near — 


Evelyn.  47 

One  cheering  look  of  homage  gives,  then,  off  again, 
He  seeks  the  Rebel  camp  of  Hampton's  gallant  men. 

As  gazes  the  Eagle,  with  riveted  eye, 
Adown  on  his  prey,  from  his  eyrie  on  high, 
So  Hampton,  the  chiefest  of  brave  Cavaliers, 
"Well  worthy  the  Chaplet  of  Fame  which  he  wears, 
Now  watching  the  foe  from  his  high  bivouac. 
Is  wrapt  in  regarding  his  point  of  attack. 
Around  him  the  night-breezes  fitfully  sigh ; 
The  cold  moon  above  him  is  scaling  the  sky  : 
The  spirit  of  Marion  revives  in  his  soul : 
His  Country's  lost  hopes  o'er  him  sombrely  roll; 
He  reads  in  her  strugglings  poor  Hungary's  fate — 
In  Poland's  dark  doom — the  knell  of  his  State. 

Below  him  is  rolling  the  dark  Edisto, 
Beyond  which  carouses  the  Cormorant-foe : 
The  "Bummers"  and  Stragglers  of  Sherman's  great 

hosts. 
Their  Bacchanal  Sentries  asleep  on  their  posts. 
The  rough  and  the  rude,  in  rendezvous  there, 
Pollute  the  loose  trail  of  the  Army's  arriere. 

And  who  so  adapted  this  crew  to  command, 
As  renegade  Hunter,  the  Scourge  of  his  land! 
Who.  drunk  with  excesses  of  blood  and  debauch. 


48  Evelyn. 

Uneasily  tosses,  to-night,  on  his  couch. 

Whilst  Evelyn,  poor  Captive,  lies  down  on  the  sod 

And  tearfully  lifts  her  sweet  eyes  to  her  God. 

Now  Hampton  descending — his  eye  on  the  foe — 
Hath  cautiously  moved  thro'  the  valley  below ; 
His  horsemen  abreast  on  the  river's  rough  slope. 
Shall  numbers  so  few  with  yon  enemy  cope  ? 
No  sinking  of  hearts  at  the  difficult  task — 
'Tis  Hampton  who  leads  them — 'tis  all  that  they  ask  I 

"My  Soldiers!"  he  tells  them,  "we  pass  not  to- 
.  night, 
These  turbulent  waters,  the  Northmen  to  fight ; 
We  need  but  a  handful  of  cavaliers  bold. 
To  rescue  a  prisoner  yon  enemies  hold  : 
What  tho'  the  rough  flood  at  your  feet  swiftly  sweeps, 
'Tis  Innocence  calling — a  soldier's  wife  weeps 
In  yonder  vile  camp  of  the  dissolute  foe — 
That  Soldier  will  lead  you — my  men,  will  ye  go?" 

"Aye,  aye,  we  are  ready!"  cry  all  in  a  breath. 
Aye,  aye,  lead  us  on! — to  her  rescue,  or — Death!" 

As  Albert,  with  hope  beating  high  in  his  breast. 
Selects  from  his  comrades  the  bravest  and  best. 
Behold!  a  rough  boat  shooting  out  from  the  shore! 
How  stalwart  the  arm  that  is  bending  each  oar! 


Evelyn.  49 

How  glowing  that  face!  that  dark  face  of  the  Slave, 
Exerting  his  strength  the  frail  captive  to  save! 

Twelve  spirits,  as  buoyant  as  men  on  a  hunt, 
Now  restless  and  reckless,  have  rushed  to  the  front : 
A  dozen  stout  horsemen  are  swimming  the  tide ; 
They  reach  the  dark  bank  of  the  furthermost  side, 
And  thro'  the  brown  woodlands,  and  over  the  vale, 
They  dauntlessly  dash,  as  on  wings  of  the  gale ; 
The  sentries  are  passed,  the  guard  is  o'erpowered, 
And  Hunter,  surprised,  from  the  conflict  hath  cowered. 

As  swift  as  the  glance  of  an  eye — from  his  seat 
Hath  Albert  alighted — with  action  as  fleet, 
He  lifts  his  young  wife  to  his  saddle — and  then 
Behind  her  he  mounts,  and  is  off  with  his  men ! 

Now,  back  to  the  boat!  aye,  for  wife,  and  for  life ! 
Now,  back  to  the  river ! — Unequal  the  strife 
Of  hundreds  'gainst  twelve!     Hark!  already  the  drum 
Hath    sounded   alarm!     They   are   mounted!     They 

come! 
With  speed  of  the  Whirlwind,  thro'  bramble  and  brush. 
On,  on  to  the  river,  in  hundreds  they  rush  ; 
But  Albert  has  reached,  with  his  Evelyn,  the  boat, 
And  stout  is  the  arm  at  the  helm  as  they  float 
Adown  the  swift  river,  'neath  the  moon,  side  by  side, 
Whilst  daringly  stem  his  bold  comrades  the  tide. 
5 


50  Evelyn. 

Now,  down  to  the  banks  the  pursuers  have  dashed; 
Hark!  o'er  the  rough  waters  their  rifles  have  flashed! 
Cries   Hampton :    "  Make   ready !   now  steady,   each 

rank! 
And  give  them  a  volley  on  the  opposite  bank ! " 
No  sooner  'tis  ordered,  than  gallantly  done  : 
Aye,  deadly  the  aim  of  each  Cavalier's  gun! 
The  foemen  are  startled!  they  falter!  they  flee! 
The  Southrons  are  Victors !  the  Captive  is  free  ! 

The  smoke  clears  away:  'neath  the  moon's  silver 

sheen 
Three  riderless  steeds  in  the  rapids  are  seen — 
Their  riders — pale  corses  'neath  the  current  careen ! 
But  hark !  o'er  the  waters  that  shrill,  piercing  shriek, 
That  curdles  the  life-blood,  and  blanches  each  cheek! 
A  Woman's  wild  cry  hath  gone  out  on  the  air ; 
Her  spirit  is  crushed  1     'Tis  the  wail  of  Despair ! 
The  boat — aye  !  the  boat  hath  reached  safely  the  shore, 
But  Albert  within  it  lies  covered  with  gore  ! 

Weep !   Evelyn,  aye,  weep !     To  his   fond,  faithful 
breast 
No  more  shall  thy  loved  form  be  tenderly  prest : 
Thine  Albert  is  dead !     By  his  soldierly  arm 
No  more  shall  thy  Country  be  shielded  from  harm  : 


Evelyn,  5^ 

His  voyage  down  Life's  fitful  River  is  o'er, 
He  reaches  the  Realms  of  the  Limitless  Shore : 
His  Spirit  hath  gone  on  the  breath  of  the  breeze, 
To  rest  'neath  the  shade  of  the  Heavenly  Trees. 

Rests  the  warrior  from  his  labor. 
Sheathed  beside  him,  rusts  his  sabre, 
Where  the  aspens  pale  and  quiver 
By  the  margin  of  the  river — 

By  the  banks  of  Edisto. 
But,  thro'  blissful,  bright  Dominions, 
Soars  his  Soul  on  spotless  pinions, 
Far  above  the  Shining  River, 
Waiting  to  be  joined  forever 

To  that  Soul  it  loved  below. 

In  a  Mad-house  doleful,  dreary, 
Evelyn  wanders  woeful,  weary ; 
In  a  Mad-house,  lowly  lying, 
In  a  Mad-house,  slowly  dying — 

Slowly  dying  of  Despair  : 
With  her  soul  forever  saddened. 
All  her  reason  rambling,  maddened : 
Every  night,  a  night  of  Sorrow, 
Hoping  for  the  hopeless  morrow 

Of  a  Mad-house,  dark  and  drear ! 


5  2  Evelyn. 

Behold!  ye  canting  Saints  of  Cromwell's  Creed! 
Fanatic  Sons  of  Puritanic  Seed ! 
Oh !  righteous  Race  of  holy  Plymouth  Rock — 
New  England's  puling,  sanctimonious  Stock  ! 
Behold  !  the  deeds  your  sacred  tenets  taught ! 
Come  view  the  Wreck  your  pious  hands  have  wrought! 

As  Eden  erst  in  quiet  beauty  smiled, 
Till  Satan's  trail  its  flowery  banks  defiled, 
So  peaceful  passed  our  happy,  halcyon  hours, 
Till  loathsome,  crawling  'mongst  our  sunny  flowers, 
Ye  hissed  your  venom  o'er  this  land  of  ours  : 
Oh  !  ye  who,  in  the  name  of  Christ  and  Kirk, 
Beneath  your  robes  conceal  the  Dirk, 
Behold  the  Picture  !     'Tis  your  bloody  work ! 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  MAIDEN, 


Thro'  a  forest  sere  and  sober, 
In  the  golden-clad  October, 
Autumn-winds  were  softly  sighing, 
Summer  leaflets  falling,  flying, 

Lying,  dying  everywhere  ! 
We  were  wandering,  slowly  walking ; 
I  was  wooing,  lowly  talking 
(Ah  !  it  seems  so  very  lately !) 
With  a  maiden  tall  and  stately — 

With  a  maiden  frail  and  fair. 

How  she  lingered  whilst  she  listened. 
And  her  eyes  with  tear-drops  glistened! 
All  her  brow  and  bosom  blushing, 
Came  her  words  so  gently  gushing : 

"Take  me — love  me — I  am  thine!" 
Ah !  those  words  were  whispered  lowly, 
And  that  vow,  it  seemed  so  holy, 
As  a  Vesper-psalm  so  saintly, 
Falling  sweetly,  falling  faintly, 

As  a  Psalmody  divine ! 


't3» 


54  The  Death  of  the  Maiden. 

Sweet  those  moments  of  our  meeting 
Sweet,  tho'  few  and  far  too  fleeting ; 
Halcyon  hours  of  golden  dreaming — 
All  of  life  with  beauty  teeming 

In  those  glorious,  golden  hours ! 
Blissful  were  the  thoughts  we  pondered, 
Peaceful  all  the  ways  we  wandered. 
Thro'  the  woods  and  meadows  mellow. 
Thro'  the  waving  fields  of  yellow. 

Thro'  the  sunny  Autumn  flowers. 

Came  then  sickness  ;  and  in  anguish 
Day  by  day,  we  watched  her  languish. 
Watched  her  waning,  watched  her  wasting. 
Oh  !  the  agony  of  tasting 

Those  mad  moments  of  despair ! 
Vain  were  all  the  arts  of  healing, 
Blight  was  o'er  her  beauty  stealing  ; 
Vain  my  wailing,  vain  my  weeping, 
Cruel  Death  came  creeping,  creeping, 

Caring  not  that  she  was  fair. 

After  one  long  night  of  sorrow, 
Ere  the  dawning  of  the  morrow, 
From  the  tapers  dimly  burning, 


The  Death  of  the  Maiden.  55 

Softly  to  the  maiden  turning, 

Mourners  whispered:  "She  is  dead!  " 
Doubting,  fearing,  still  uncertain, 
Dreading  yet  to  lift  the  curtain, 
Something  seemed  to  hover  'round  her; 
Angels,  then,  I  knew  had  found  her. 

Knew  I  then  her  soul  had  fled. 

From  her  lifeless  form  they  tore  me, 
From  her  cold  embrace  they  bore  me, 
But  our  Souls  they  could  not  sever  ; 
We  shall  meet  again  forever, 

Ay,  forever,  hand  in  hand  ! 
Time  is  flowing  !  Time  is  flowing  ! 
On  her  grave  the  grass  is  growing, 
Waves  the  willow  o'er  her,  weeping, 
But  her  sainted  Soul  is  sleeping, 

Waiting  in  the  Spirit-land. 


TO  A  LEAF  ON  A  LADY'S  BREAST. 


Ah  !  little  Leaf,  how  covet  I 

Your  comfortable  rest ! 
How  cosily  you  seem  to  lie 

Upon  my  Lady's  breast ! 
And  tho'  I  know  'twere  vain  to  sigh, 

To  be,  like  thee ,  caressed  ; 
Yet,  oh  !  how  happy  I  could  die 

To  be  so  blessed  ! 

I  would  I  were  her  favorite  flower, 

Nor  sunned  by  Summer  sky, 
But  growing  in  her  chosen  bower. 

Beneath  her  azure  eye  : 
How  eagerly  I'd  lift  my  head 

To  catch  her  maiden  kiss ; 
Perchance  she'd  make  her  breast  my  bed, 

A  bed  of  bliss  ! 

Now  nestling  on  her  neck,  the  while 

I'd  list  to  thoughts  within, 
Then  basking  in  her  sunny  smile, 

I'd  touch  her  dimpled  chin  : 


Lees  Welcome  to  Columbia.  S7 

From  damask  check  and  ruby  lip 

I'd  steal  a  roseate  hue ; 
Her  eyes,  my  skies,  from  them  I'd  sip 

My  only  dew. 

What  tho'  I  perish  'mid  my  bliss, 

So  I  but  hear  her  sigh  ! 
What  pleasure  half  so  sweet  as  this — 

i/po/i  her  breast  to  die  ! 
Her  warm  young  bosom  be  my  bier ; 

My  dirge,  her  lulling  breath, 
Impassioned  still,  I'd  wanton  there — 

Ay,  e'en  in  death! 


LEE'S  WELCOME  TO  COLUMBIA. 

{March  30///,  1870.) 


All  day  the  murky  clouds  hung  low 

Above  the  silent  City  ; 
The  skies  seemed  draped  in  robes  of  woe — 

To  weep  in  very  pity — 
In  pity  for  our  wounded  pride, 

In  pity  for  our  people, 
While,  since  the  dawn,  the  winds  had  sighed 

Round  crumbling  tower  and  steeple. 


58  Lee's  Welcome  to  Columbia. 

The  wrecks  of  old  ancestral  halls, 

In  all  their  desolateness, 
The  ruined  walks,  and  blackened  walls 

To  Vandal  hate  bore  witness. 
Against  the  sky,  the  toppling  stacks, 

In  solemn,  sad  sedateness, 
Seemed  sentries  on  their  beaten  tracks — 

Grim  ghosts  of  former  greatness. 

Each  sombre  mart  deserted  seemed, 

The  day  wore  dull  and  dreary. 
While  men  moved  on,  as  men  that  dreamed, 

With  footsteps  flagging  weary. 
But,  hark  ! — that  sudden  clamor  hear ! — 

That  hum  of  human  voices ! 
Whilst,  everywhere,  with  shout  and  cheer, 

The  very  air  rejoices  ! 

One  little  word,  first  faintly  heard, 

Now  thousands  echo  loudly. 
And  every  Southern  heart  is  stirred, 

And  every  head  held  proudly ! 
Maimed  men  and  matrons  shout — "Tis  Lee  I' 

Fair  maidens  swell  the  chorus ; 
The  children  clap  their  hands  in  glee ; 

The  sky  growls  brighter  o'er  us. 


Lcc's  Welcome  to  Columbia.  59 

'Tis  he  ! — 'tis  he  ! — the  hero,  Lee  ! 

No  tyrant  sword  can  sever 
Our  hearts  from  him,  for  he  shall  be 

The  sovereign  of  them  ever. 
The  tidings  leap  from  street  to  street, 

Each  tongue  that  name  repeating. 
And  many  meet  with  hastening  feet 

To  give  the  hero  greeting. 

See  how  the  brave  old  chieftain  comes — 

No  banners  o'er  him  soaring ! 
No  roll  is  heard  of  mighty  drums, 

No  cannons  'round  him  roaring. 
On  every  heart  himself  engraved — • 

What  need  of  laurelled  arches ! 
'Neath  lifted  hats  and  kerchiefs  waved 

Our  gray-haired  warrior  marches. 

When,  in  the  Christian  cause  of  Peace, 

His  sword  was  sheathed  forever, 
With  him  we  wept,  that  we  must  cease 

Our  brave  but  vain  endeavor : 
And  still  we  love  him  as  of  old. 

When,  'mongst  the  dead  and  dying, 
He  rode,  the  boldest  of  the  bold, 

Our  foe  before  him  flying. 


6q  What  the  Angel  brought  us. 

Ah !  'twas  a  splendid  sight  to  see 

Our  Southern  chiefs  assembled 
To  greet  their  grand  old  leader,  Lee, 

'Fore  whom  once  tyrants  trembled ! 
We  are  not  free,  alas  ! — but  we 

Forget  our  heroes  never : 
We  can  but  shout:  "Long  live  our  Lee! 

"The  South  and  Lee  forever!" 


WHAT  THE  ANGEL  BROUGHT  US. 


In  the  early  days  of  Autumn, 

In  the  bright  Autumnal  days, 
When  the  Indian-summer  sunlight 

Slants  its  soft  September  rays  ; 
In  my  chamber  I  lay  dreaming 

Of  a  sick  one  dear  to  me — 
Of  her  young  maternal  yearnings 

For  a  Life,  that  was  to  be. 

By  her  bed-side  I  was  dreaming 
In  the  curtained  light  of  day, 

Till  the  purpling  of  the  morning 
Brightened  into  streaks  of  gray- 


W/iat  the  Angel  brought  us.  6 1 

I  was  dreaming  that  an  Angel, 

Hovering  o'er  the  loved  one's  couch, 

Fanned  her  with  a  breath  of  Heaven — 
Healed  her  with  his  holy  touch ; 

Seeming,  too,  to  carry  something — 

Something  sheltered  'neath  his  wing : 
Then  he  laid  it  down  and  left  it — 

Left  the  wee,  but  wondrous  thing. 
And  he  scarcely  pressed  the  carpet, 

Passing  by  me,  where  I  lay — 
Touched  me  with  his  wing  as  lightly 

As  an  Aspen  leaf  at  play. 

Yet,  that  gentle  touch  awoke  me, 

And  the  rosy  flush  of  dawn. 
Falling  on  the  lovely  sufferer, 

Showed  the  Angel-form  was  gone ; 
But  I  saw  the  Angel's  burden 

Tightly  to  her  bosom  pressed — 
Baby  fingers,  as  she  slumbered, 

Toying  with  her  marble  breast. 

And  I  kissed  the  dainty  fingers. 
While  two  lips  so  sweetly  smiled, 


62  W/iat  the  Angel  brought  us. 

Could  I  tell  which  was  the  sweetest- 
Mother  pale  or  dimpled  child  ? 

But  I  know,  no  Angel  ever 

Sweeter  boon  or  blessing  bore ; 

And  no  Father  and  no  Mother 
Welcomed  such  a  Babe  before. 

For  her  face  is  like  the  morning, 

Like  the  morning-star  her  eye, 
And  her  hair  is  like  the  sunlight 

Of  the  Indian-summer  sky. 
Such  the  gift  the  Angel  brought  us- 

Baby  with  her  winsome  ways. 
In  the  early  days  of  Autumn, 

In  the  bright  Autumnal  days. 


MAD. 

The  pale-faced  Moon  in  a  fleecy  cloud 

Lies  cold  and  blank  in  her  curtained  bed, 
Like  a  visage  veiled  in  a  snowy  shroud — 

The  stark,  stiff  face  of  a  woman  dead. 
Avaunt,  pale  vision!     Out,  out  from  the  sky! 

I  know  whose  face  is  reflected  there — 
That  woman's  face,  with  its  dead,  dull  eye, 

That  chills  my  veins  with  its  vacant  stare. 

Just  so  she  looked,  when  they  laid  her  down 

With  marks  of  blood  on  her  face  and  feet; 
With  tell-tale  stains  on  her  tattered  gown. 

Just  so  she  lay  in  her  winding  sheet : 
Just  so  she  seemed  in  a  cloud  to  float, 

Wliile  my  senses  reeled  and  my  sight  grew  dim 
With  murder  marks  on  her  pearly  throat, 

Just  so  she  paled  as  a  spectre  grim. 

'Twas  years  ago,  on  a  shadowy  night, 

One  Christmas-eve  of  the  long  ago,  » 

The  moon  looked  down  with  a  lurid  light 
On  the  wild  and  wintry  world  below — 


64  Mad, 

With  baleful  beams,  through  a  boughless  glade, 
Peered  mournfully  down  at  Maud  and  me, 

As  we  silent  paused  in  the  solemn  shade. 
In  the  fitful  shade  of  a  sombre  tree. 

The  night  seemed  weird,  as  the  dead  leaves  stirred 

Over  our  heads  in  the  hoary  tree, 
Whilst  never  a  word,  not  a  whispered  word 

Was  spoken  at  all  by  Maud  or  me : 
For  my  brain  w^as  crazed  by  the  Demon,  Wine, 

My  body  was  reeling  to  and  fro. 
While  the  moon  turned  pale,  ashamed  to  shine 

On  the  sorrowful  scene  of  sin  below. 

As  we  stood  in  silence,  side  by  side. 

In  the  dismal  shade  of  the  dusky  tree. 
In  the  gloomy  haze  of  the  night's  noon-tide, 

How  beautiful  seemed  my  Maud  to  me! 
But  the  damning  Bowl  my  brain  had  crazed, 

My  blood  beat  fast  with  its  subtle  flow, 
And  the  moon  alone  saw  my  arm  upraised. 

Only  the  moon  saw  the  fatal  blow. 


How  gracefully  lay  my  Maud  at  rest, 
Her  beautiful  raven  hair  afloat. 


Mad.  65 

With  gems  of  blood  on  her  jewelled  breast, 
With  beads  of  blood  on  her  pearly  throat ! 

Ah !  I  loved  my  lovely  Maud  that  night, 
As  the  moon  fell  full  on  her  upturned  face, 

And  wanton  winds,  o'er  her  bosom  white, 
Were  lightly  lifting  the  envied  lace! 

We  slept — both  slept  till  the  Christmas-dawn, 

Dreaming  our  dreams  till  the  break  of  day; 
I  dreamed  that  my  beautiful  Maud  was  gone. 

Gone  with  the  beams  of  the  moon  away. 
I  woke — and  my  hands  were  fast  in  chains, 

And  felon  fetters  were  around  my  feet, 
Whilst  Maud,  all  marred  with  murder  stains, 

Lay  stark  and  stift'  in  a  winding  sheet. 

I  watched  my  Maud  in  her  flowing  shroud, 
I  watched  till  my  weeping  eyes  were  dim, 

Till  she  seemed  to  float  on  a  fleecy  cloud, 
Paling  away  as  a  spectre  grim : 

And  I  see  her  yet  beyond  the  stars, 
I  watch  her  form  in  the  midnight  sky, 

I  see  her  face  through  my  prison  bars — 

That  woman's  face  with  its  dead,  dull  eye. 
6 


66  Mad. 

They  call  me  mad,  and  with  felon  chains 

They  bind  me  fast  to  my  prison  floor, 
Where  I  nightly  hear  the  mournful  strains 

Of  the  winter  winds  in  their  wild  uproar; 
Where  naught  I  hear  but  my  clanking  chains 

And  the  howling  winds  at  my  dungeon  door, 
Where  naught  I  see  but  the  mocking  stains 

Of  that  face  in  the  moon  forever-more. 

Avaunt,  pale  moon,  with  your  ghostly  glare! 
'     Look  not  so  mournfully  on  me  below; 
You  freeze  my  heart  with  a  frenzied  fear. 

You  fill  my  soul  with  a  fearful  woe. 
You  drive  me  mad  when  I  see  you  shine; 

Avaunt  from  the  sky  with  your  goblin  glow! 
You  know  'twas  the  deed  of  the  Demon,  Wine- 

'Twas  the  Demon,  Wine,  that  dealt  the  blow. 


MAGNA  EST  VERITAS,  ET  PR^EVALEBIT." 


Let  Tyrants  teach  that  "  Might  makes  Right," 

Let  Treason  join  the  canting  cry, 
Let  hireling  might  e'en  win  the  fight, 

Yet,  "Truth  is  great,"  and  cannot  die: 
What  though  the  Truth  be  trodden  down, 

What  though  the  holiest  cause  may  fail, 
Though  AVrong  may  wear  the  Victor's  crown, 

Yet,  "Truth  is  great,  and  will  prevail." 

Not  dead  iht  Cause,  which  millions  roused. 

The  Cause  for  which  a  Nation  bled, 
The  Cause  which  pious  Polk  espoused — 

The  Cause  of  Jackson  is  not  dead! 
What  though  the  Southern  sword  be  sheathed. 

What  though  in  dust  her  banners  trail, 
Immortal  Truth  is  round  them  wreathed, 

And  "Truth  is  great,  and  will  prevail." 

By  all  the  hosts  that  Lee  has  led 
To  front  the  vaulting  Vandal  flood, 


68  ''Magna  est  Veritas,  ct  Pran'alebitr 

By  every  drop  so  bravely  shed 
On  Antietam's  field  of  blood — 

Magruder's  charge  at  Malvern  Hill, 
And  Spottsylvania's  iron  hail, 

By  all  our  dead,  remember  still, 

That  "Truth  is  great,  and  will  prevail." 


And  ye,  who  followed  Jackson's  form 

Where  only  bravest  dared  to  go — 
Who  watched  him  in  the  battle's  storm. 

Like  lightning,  rend  the  stubborn  foe — 
Ay!  ye,  who  never  yet  did  yield — 

Who  never  yet  were  seen  to  quail 
Before  the  foe,  on  equal  field. 

Know — "Truth  is  great,  and  will  prevail. 

Then  pause,  ye  Tyrants,  and  be  taught, 

That  trampled  Truth  will  rise  again ; 
Ye  cannot  bind  ethereal  thought. 

That  laughs  to  scorn  the  Victor's  chain. 
From  old  Potomac's  classic  wave 

To  Rio  Grande's  historic  dale, 
A  voice  from  every  gory  grave 

Cries — "Truth  is  great,  and  will  prevail." 


"  Magna  est  Veritas,  ct  Prccvalcbit!'  69 

See,  Hope's  bright  arch  yet  spans  the  cloud, 

E'en  while  we  lay  our  banners  by, 
And  living  Truth  shall  burst  the  shroud. 

Which  wraps  in  gloom  the  Southern  sky! 
Look  up,  then,  Southrons,  from  the  dust, 

And  proudly  tell  your  wondrous  tale; 
In  triumph  still,  be  true  to  trust, 

For  "Truth  is  great,  and  will  prevail." 


"'^^m 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
228 


